Page 121 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“Okay.”

“Call us if anything changes.”

I ended the call, opened my phone’s calendar, and set two reminders leading up to Monday so we would be on time. This was my normal operation. I set alarms, calendars, and reminders for all appointments. But this one I would be watching the clock around the clock for. Malik watched me from his chair.

“We’re keeping an eye on you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. The small response loosened the knot in my chest. By lunchtime, he had eaten half a sandwich. He laughed when a character on the television walked into a wall. The sound was softer than usual, but it was his.

I let myself breathe.

Saturday was better.

Malik finished his breakfast and reached for the remote when his movie ended. He smiled during his bath and became irritated when I took too long fastening his shirt. The irritation reassured me. I kept Monday’s appointment. I also kept watching, noting every meal, nap, and mood change. I checked his temperature until he began pulling his face away when he saw the thermometer. At bedtime, I stood beside his bed longer than necessary and watched the monitor display his heart rate and oxygen level.

Both were normal.

I touched his cheek.

“Tell Mama if something hurts.”

His eyes remained on the television mounted across from his bed. I hated asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Most days, I understood Malik without words. I knew when he was hungry, tired, bored, or frustrated. I knew which sounds meant happiness and which ones came before tears.

Pain was different.

Pain could hide behind his silence until his body had no choice but to reveal it. Pain would send me to the upper room because I hated the thought of my baby hurting.

Sunday afternoon, Malik fell asleep during a basketball game.

His head tilted against the support of his chair. One hand remained curled around the Spider-Man figure Elijah had given him. I lowered the volume and watched him. He had slept through the night. After breakfast, he took another nap. Now he had drifted off less than an hour after lunch.

“Malik.”

His eyelids lifted.

“You sleepy?”

He blinked and looked toward the television. The players moved across the court. His attention followed them. I checked his temperature again. It was still normal. He hadn’t vomited. His appetite wasn’t back to normal, but he was eating. There was still no swelling or redness over the shunt.

I called the nurse line.

They repeated the instructions from Friday. Keep Monday’s appointment. Take him to the emergency room if his symptoms worsen. I moved his chair beside me on the sofa and kept my hand on his arm for the rest of the game.

By Monday morning, the silence had returned. Malik opened his eyes when I entered his room, but the wide smile he usually gave me never came.

“Good morning, baby.”

He watched me approach. I leaned over the bed and kissed his forehead, and he lifted one hand toward his head. My pulse quickened.

“Does it hurt?”

His fingers brushed the right side near his shunt. I helped him touch his communication board, but he didn’t choose a picture. His eyes closed before I finished dressing him. Our appointment was in less than two hours.

I packed his medication list, medical binder, an extra set of clothes, and the Spider-Man figure. He remained awake during the drive but didn’t react when I played his favorite songs.

At the clinic, his examination showed no signs that there might be swelling around the shunt and no obvious changes in his pupils. He followed the nurse’s light and responded when Dr. Hawkins’s physician assistant tested his arms and legs.

“He may be fighting a virus,” she said. “His neurological examination is reassuring.”